Here is a review of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Spoilers? Sure.

Now, from what I gather, sometime during the original series, Voldemort managed to impregnate Draco Malfoy, and is the true father of Scorpius. Due to the fact that Harry Potter was somewhat telepathically connected to Voldemort at that time, he’s kind of the dad too.

It is now the year 3030. Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Severus, Harry’s other son, are dating. And not just casually—they’ve both thought about who would be their groomsmen. Meanwhile, another one of Harry’s sons, James Sirius, is battling a pretty heavy heroin addiction. It is hinted that this has caused Ginny, Harry’s alcoholic wife, to elope with Dudley Dursley.

Then, in a breaking of the fourth wall, all of the characters suddenly realize that they are in a play, which itself has been novelized by two dudes who did not create the series which was the basis for the play that was turned into this book.

The universe needs balance, though. Enter the yuppies of Trader Joe’s, a force countering the grizzled mass that comprises Walmart’s patronage, not in looks, but in sheer pomposity.

Last Friday, I witnessed a 40-something male, clad in snug, halfway-down-the-quad navy blue short pants and a tight pastel plaid shirt, shaming an elderly woman that may have been his mother, lover—or through some sort of strange sci-fi twist, daughter—for suggesting that they buy frozen corn.

Later on, in court, Man 1 was unable to produce a believable explanation as to why he possessed so much knowledge about the topography of baby rumps, and went to jail for a very, very long time. The end.

A few weeks ago, at one of them political rallies, Dr. Ben Carson said something like this: Hillary Clinton wrote her senior thesis on Saul Alinsky. Saul Alinsky mentions Lucifer in one of his books. Therefore, Hillary Clinton worships Satan.

Compelling argument, but there’s no way she’s that cool.

So I sat for a while, thinking. Following Dr. Carson’s logic, I learned some very dark truths about myself.

Here are a few:

I read Gravity’s Rainbow, a big novel with a small part featuring coprophilia. Therefore, I am a coprophiliac.

I enjoy using car batteries to torture hookers, because a copy of American Psycho is sitting in my book pile right now. Also, I like to stab small children at the zoo.

I am a homophobic pill popper who hates his mother. That would be from my high school days listening to Eminem.

I cook meth. Thanks, Breaking Bad.

And most horrifying of all, I might not play football next year because I’d rather hang out with Wooderson and drink beer.

I recently read on the internet that all lives matter. Read: since only things with lives matter, that automatically means that anything without life, any object lacking that essential élan vital, is second class scum and not worthy of our time. All of this pleases me, ‘cuz I’ve got this dead guy.

This dead guy does not matter one bit. It’s right there in the hashtag. That gives me the go-ahead to really go to town on this corpse. Sex. I didn’t say it. You were thinking it. Anyways, there are a lot of non-sexual things you can do with a worthless body that just wouldn’t fly with a live person. I plan to stab it first. After that, I’m going to throw it off my balcony and see if it explodes on the concrete below.

I think it’s pretty obvious how the Democratic National Convention is going to end: tomorrow night, right during primetime, expect Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders to be sown together, legally making them one person, something called Billary Slinton or Hernie Clanders, who will become the new nominee.

Or they’ll conceive a baby.

Then they’ll pump Hillary full of age-accelerating pills—something the government has been hiding from us—in order for the love child to be born and advance to an electable age by November.

Cause of issue: lack of innovation and creative stagnation in marketing this product stems from the lunar-like cyclicity of the feminine, ahem, time, which leads tampons to be designated as a need, not a want, causing top napkin producers to take sales for granted.

Solution: rebrand the product.

For this rebranding, our ideal situation would have been to land famed pitchman Billy Mays, but as we all know, it’s been seven years since he mainlined his last speedball of OxiClean, sending him screaming enthusiastically into the Great Void.

It’s okay, with the internet, we can find an impersonator.

Our Billy Mays impersonator

So then we move on to the name. The most obvious choice was to christen the product Tampon Daddy.

That probably needs an explanation.

Well I’ve got one.

The name adds a subtle masculine aspect to a product that has, historically, captured nearly 100% of its sales from a demographic of child-bearing age females. It’s time for tampons to break into a new market—a market that has the potential to double sales.

How are we going to sell Tampon Daddy to men? You make tampons sexy again.

And how do you do that? I……don’t know.

Oh yeah, back to the beginning: the issue was that tampon commercials aren’t funny.

So I guess come up with a tampon commercial featuring a Billy Mays impersonator that portrays the product in a very hilarious, sexy light, and somehow opens an educated discussion on why men aren’t using these things, all while not alienating women.